


junrenka

by oryx



Category: High and Low: the Story of S.W.O.R.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Guilt, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: Putting the pieces back together, in the aftermath of the fight at Funk Jungle.





	junrenka

**Author's Note:**

> not really sure where i'm going with this, if i'm going anywhere at all, but. we'll see.

He makes it about three blocks before he starts swaying on his feet.  
   
At least one of his ribs must be cracked; each breath he takes feels like multiple knives stabbing at his solar plexus. Of course, broken ribs are a long-familiar pain. It’s that compounded with everything else – his wrist undoubtedly sprained or worse, his entire body aching as it begins to bruise, the palms of his hands stinging viciously from where they were cut open by broken glass – that has his vision blurring together with each step. He thinks he must have knocked his head against the floor at some point, too. The city around him seems to lurch and tilt dizzily whenever he looks at it.  
   
He’s half in the process of tipping over when Kohaku’s arm snakes around his waist.  
   
“Tsukumo,” he says. With some effort Tsukumo turns his head to look at him, and he has the exact expression he was hoping not to see – horrified and anxious and so very, very guilty. His face is close enough to see the red still rimming his eyes. “I’m – ”  
   
“Don’t say it,” Tsukumo mutters. If it’s something that will heal, then don’t say it. That’s how it’s always been, how it should always be. “Just… let me use your shoulder instead.”  
   
Kohaku looks at him with his sad eyes for a moment before nodding, tugging Tsukumo’s arm around to drape over his shoulders. Tsukumo curls his fingers into the leather of Kohaku’s jacket, his thumb brushing the slope of his neck as he does so.  
   
They walk the rest of the way back to Kohaku’s apartment like this, neither of them saying a word.  
   
  
   
  
   
Here’s a stupid story:  
   
There was once a lonely dumbass with nothing to live for, who got punched in the face one day by the handsomest guy they’d ever seen. Went and got their entire life saved by him, too, so maybe it was inevitable that they’d start to find the sound of his laugh appealing. That they’d lie there in their hospital bed like an idiot, thinking about kissing the smile right off his face.  
   
And it was definitely inevitable that he’d have someone already – someone so  _good_  and perfect for him it was almost ludicrous.  
   
That’s just the way these kinds of stories go, after all.  
   
And that’s how it was meant to end, too. With this dumbass staying quiet and not doing a damn thing about their  _feelings_  for the rest of their fucking life, because they weren’t such a fool that they’d get in the way of something that real.  
   
At least, that was the plan.  
   
Waking up to find you’ve been asleep for months and your friend is dead has its way of throwing a subtle wrench into things.  
   
  
   
  
   
In the shower, he stands there motionless for minutes on end and lets the water beat down a relentless rhythm on his head. It’s hot enough that for a time it’s all he can feel, until he finally hauls himself out and the scalding warmth ebbs away into pain again. He stares at his reflection in the mirror and grimaces. Half of his torso is fading into wine-dark shades of reddish purple, which will look even worse in a few days’ time when they’ve changed to mottled greens and yellows. His black eye, too, which he lifts a hand to trace the edges of tenderly.  
   
He takes the first aid kit out from under the sink and does what he can to patch himself up – the pattern of vivid red cuts on his palms disinfected, his aching wrist wrapped tight with bandages. Breathing is still like so many needles in his lungs, and his right knee feels busted in a way he can’t put into words, but at the very least the world is no longer wobbling precariously around him, which he takes to be a promising sign.  
   
He’s not going back to the hospital again. Not now. Not ever, if he can help it.  
   
He shifts in place and feels a stinging throb, and it’s only then that he remembers the slash across his back. From when he went through the window, he can only assume. He turns to examine it and sighs. It’s not very deep, but it is long, starting to bleed again now that he’s out of the shower. That, he can’t reach on his own. He awkwardly shuffles into a pair of sweatpants and reaches for the door.  
   
He finds Kohaku on the couch, his face in profile, staring out at nothing in particular. When he lifts his cigarette to his lips his hand is shaking visibly.  
   
“Kohaku-san,” Tsukumo says, and he comes back to himself from wherever he was with a start, his eyes wide when he turns to look at him. His expression darkens as he takes in the extent of his bruises.  
   
“Give me a hand, will you?” Tsukumo indicates to the laceration across his back, and Kohaku is on his feet in an instant, as if he’d been waiting on the very edge of his seat, desperate for something to do with himself. Tsukumo presses the first aid kit into his hands and pulls up a chair from the kitchen table and tries to stifle his pained intake of breath as he sits down.  
   
“Right,” he can hear Kohaku murmur from behind him. “Right.”  
   
Tsukumo can’t help but tense up as Kohaku’s palm comes to rest against his shoulder, the warmth of the touch seeping down through skin and muscle, and Kohaku immediately snatches his hand back.  
   
“That’s not – ” Tsukumo starts, turning back to look at him and seeing the alarm in his eyes, but his voice gets caught, jagged and sharp in his throat. That’s not why, he desperately wants to say. It’s not you I’m wary of.  
   
“It’s fine,” he mutters. “Just forget about it.”  
   
Still, Kohaku seems to be making an effort to touch him as little as possible as he sets about disinfecting the cut and bandaging it. When his fingertips brush his shoulder blades it’s fleeting, and even as he tapes the gauze into place he seems hyperaware of the contact. Like having a ghost at his back, Tsukumo thinks.  
   
A second later he can feel Kohaku go still behind him. “Your hands,” he says, and Tsukumo realizes then that his palms are upturned in his lap, the pattern of scratches looking far more vivid than they did before. Tsukumo flexes his fingers experimentally, trying not to wince at the sting of it.  
   
“I already did what I could,” he says with a shrug. “It’s good enough – ”  
   
But Kohaku is circling around nonetheless, until he standing there in front of him, motionless and staring down at his hands with an indecipherable look in his eyes, his jaw visibly clenched.  
   
“…Kohaku-san?”  
   
He wavers in place for a moment, and it’s like his legs just give out beneath him, then, sinking to his knees at Tsukumo’s feet and seeming to crumple in upon himself. He hangs his head, hiding his eyes from view as his hand reaches up, hesitant, to rest against Tsukumo’s knee, like he’s anchoring himself in place.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”  
   
It would be so easy, Tsukumo thinks. To grab him by the chin and lean down and kiss the words out of his mouth. But then what, he wonders. What outcome could he possibly hope for, now of all times? His hand curls into a fist in his lap, fingers digging painfully into his split-open skin.  
   
“I told you not to say it,” he says instead, and feels something twist inside him as he looks away.  
   
  
   
  
   
Kohaku insists that he take the bed. His tone gets sharp when Tsukumo tries to protest – sharp in a way that sounds brittle, like he’s about to fall to pieces at any moment, and Tsukumo knows enough not to push him further.  
   
Tsukumo assumes he won’t be able to sleep, what with the full body ache consuming him. What with the oppressive drabness of Kohaku’s room – perfunctory, in a way, a space that’s clearly occupied but not lived in. What with the two Mugen jackets he can see hanging in the half-open closet, the conspicuously downturned picture frame on the bedside table (he’s sure he knows what photo it contains).  
   
He assumes, but he underestimates the power of sheer weariness. He’s out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow – a blank, dreamless sleep – and wakes to sunlight in his eyes from the blinds he didn’t think to close.  
   
He groans. What they say about sleep healing you is a scam and a lie, he’s decided. If anything he feels infinitely worse now, that ache from last night having turned into a pulsing throb that seems to ebb in and out with each breath. He pushes himself up into a sitting position with major difficulty, dragging a hand down his face and recoiling when he accidentally touches bruised skin.  
   
Contemplating going back to sleep, he moves to turn away from the sunlight, and –  
   
He smells food, he realizes. He sits there for a moment in vague confusion, unable to imagine why that might be. Curiosity spurs him to drag himself out of bed, shuffling over to the door.  
   
Kohaku is in the kitchen, and he’s humming. He grins when he notices Tsukumo standing there.  
   
“Yo,” he says brightly. “You want an omelet?”  
   
Tsukumo stares at him. He feels a bit like he just stepped into a different time, a different reality, and he wonders, briefly, if maybe he’s still asleep. But no. Kohaku’s own injuries are more obvious now in the daylight, his right cheek a mass of black and blue, his lip blood red where it’s split. He hardly seems to notice them, though. He’s looking at Tsukumo with an easy expression he hasn’t seen in a long, long time (only weeks since you woke up, he corrects himself, but it feels like it’s been an eternity).  
   
Tsukumo swallows hard. “You,” he starts, and falters, unsure of what he meant to say. Instead he hears himself ask: “What song is that?”  
   
Kohaku’s brow knits together. “Dunno,” he says. “Something from the seventies, I think? Tatsuya’s old man used to hum it when he cooked. Guess I just picked it up along the way.”  
   
Tsukumo tenses up at Tatsuya’s name, watching Kohaku’s face for any hint of a storm brewing beneath the calm mask, and yet seemingly there is none. The contented set to his features looks as genuine as it used to as he turns back to the stovetop. Tsukumo walks over and takes a seat at the table hesitantly, confusedly, feeling as if this is all a ruse, somehow. A cruel trick that the universe is playing on him. Any moment now it will be snatched away.  
   
“I’m gonna head over to the storage unit after this,” Kohaku says, offhanded and casual and he deposits a slightly lopsided omelet in front of him. “You want to come with?”  
   
Tsukumo blinks up at him.  
   
“You… want me to come?”  
   
Kohaku shrugs a shoulder. “Sure. Only if you’re up for it.” He takes the seat across from him and gives him a long, appraising look. “You look like hell, man. Y’know that?”  
   
“Fuck off, so do you,” Tsukumo mutters, more a reflex than anything, and watches in astonishment as Kohaku laughs, his eyes crinkling endearingly at the corners, as if nothing had ever changed at all.  
   
  
   
  
   
“Oh, no way,” he says, snatching the keys out of Tsukumo’s hand before he can react and leveling him with a frown. “You’re in no condition to ride.”  
   
“Are you kidding me?” Tsukumo stares at him. “What are you, my babysitter?”  
   
Kohaku merely raises an eyebrow. “Would you let me on the road if I had those injuries?”  
   
As if I’ve ever been able to change your mind, Tsukumo thinks. As if anything I said would matter at all, if this were the other way around –  
   
Kohaku is shoving his helmet into his hands. “C’mon,” he says, jabbing a thumb at the seat behind him. “Hop on.”  
   
It’s a short ride to the storage units, for which Tsukumo is grateful. It’s been ages since he last rode like this, on the back of Kohaku’s bike, unsure of what to do with his body. Always either too close for comfort or too distant to feel natural. Stuck in the crosshairs between familiarity and secrets. He wonders, in the back of his mind, what it might be like to slide his hands forward, to circle his arms around Kohaku’s waist and hold on tight. To lean his forehead against his back and close his eyes.  
   
Too corny, he decides a moment later with a grimace. What is he, a teenager?  
   
(Still, the urge remains.)  
   
The bike’s speed slows as they turn into the rows of colourful storage containers, and Tsukumo watches them slide past one by one, counting off the numbers in his head until Tatsuya’s finally comes into view.  
   
“Here all this time, huh,” Kohaku says as brings the bike to a halt and cuts the engine. He laughs again, but this time there’s a forced, nervous energy to it.  
   
Tsukumo stands off to the side; watches out of the corner of his eye as Kohaku takes the key from his pocket and fits it into the lock (his hands are shaking, just a little). The doors swing open and Kohaku stands there in the entrance for a long moment, just staring, and Tsukumo takes this as his cue to step away.  
   
Maybe he shouldn’t have come after all.  
   
He leans against the side of the storage unit, the metal sun-warm even through his jacket. He fishes a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket, feeling calmer the instant the smoke hits his tongue, though his cracked ribs are like shards of glass in his chest as he inhales.  
   
The sound of the engine revving to life makes him glance back. Kohaku has wheeled the old bike out, his touch light and reverent against the clutch.  
   
“She sounds pretty good,” Tsukumo says.  
   
Kohaku’s eyes have a bit of a glassy sheen to them as he meets his gaze. He clears his throat. “She does,” he agrees. “Almost like someone tuned her up in the past week.”  
   
At that, Tsukumo looks away, busying himself with lifting his cigarette to his lips to take one last drag. He hadn’t meant to draw attention to that.  
   
“You’re really…” Kohaku begins, and Tsukumo is thankful when he seems to give up partway into that thought, shaking his head. “C’mon. Let’s go.”  
   
“You know you don’t have to bring me along with you everywhere, right?”  _Especially now, of all times._  Tsukumo lets the stub of his cigarette fall, grinding it into the gravel beneath his heel. “You go. I’ll take the other bike back.”  
   
“That’s – ”  
   
“I think I can handle a couple blocks, Kohaku-san. I’ve got someone I want to visit anyhow.”  
   
Kohaku studies his face for a time before sighing resignedly. He rummages around in his pocket for the key and tosses it to him, a catch that his pain-addled reflexes barely make in time.  
   
“Just go slow, will you? Stay out of traffic.”  
   
And at that he twists the throttle, the rumble of the engine melding into a roar, and Tsukumo watches him ride away until he turns a corner and vanishes from sight.  
   
  
   
  
   
He’s glad the cemetery is all but empty today. There’s no one to see him tear the top off this bottle of wine with his bare teeth and take a long swig as he crouches there amid the rows of graves, looking (he assumes) every inch the classic delinquent. He makes an unimpressed noise as the taste of the wine settles on his tongue.  
   
“Too fancy for me, but you always liked this stuff,” he says, and pours a small amount into the patch of soil in front of Tatsuya’s headstone. He goes to take another sip himself but stops, the mouth of the bottle hovering near his lips.  
   
“Guess I shouldn’t,” he mutters. “Since I’m already impaired enough as it is.” As if on cue, his wrist twinges beneath his shoddy bandaging job. “And it’s not my bike. Though now that he’s got his old favorite back, he probably won’t have much need for that one anymore.”  
   
Tsukumo sits back on his heels and stares up at the empty sky for a moment before re-corking the bottle and setting it there by the headstone. “You can have the rest,” he says, and moves to take a seat on the cold ground, his back pressed up against a stranger’s grave. (He’s going to be coming back here often, he knows. He supposes he should learn the neighbors’ names at some point.)  
   
“I dunno why,” he says slowly, “but I keep trying to imagine what you would say if you were here now. But that’s pointless, right? ‘Cause if you were here, none of this would’ve ever happened to begin with.” A pause, in which the silence feels like a tangible thing pressing down on his shoulders. “I keep thinking about… if it’d been me instead of you. Guess that’s pointless too, but still. Me buried here and you waking up in that hospital bed. It would’ve been better for everyone, right? He never would’ve gone to war for me. And that’s – it hurts, somehow, shitty as it is.  
   
“As if you’d be happy, wherever you are, knowing he hurt his friends for you, knowing he almost killed himself for you. And yet, I’m – ” He breaks off, voice faltering. When he speaks again his throat feels tight. “I’m not like you, Tatsuya-san. I’m petty and pathetic and you were never anything but good to me but I still feel like this. Like I’m always going to be living in your shadow and I’ll never be able to beat you. You’re gone and I still can’t win.”  
   
He tips his head back; lets it hit the smooth marble of the gravestone behind him with a satisfyingly painful  _thump_.  
   
“Even now I’m making you listen to my shitty problems, huh?” He manages a small, weak laugh. “Sorry. For that and for – for everything else.”  
   
He lapses into silence, and sits there with the coldness of the earth seeping into his skin as the minutes fade and blend together into more minutes still.  
   
  
   
  
   
Someone is shaking him by the shoulders.  
   
His eyes open blearily to find Kohaku’s face startlingly close to his own, his expression panicked and fear-stricken, and immediately Tsukumo assumes the worst – that they’re under attack. That their more disreputable associates have wasted no time in seeking payback for the fact that S.W.O.R.D. is still standing. Tiredness gone in an instant, he straightens himself up on the couch, and –  
   
And the alarm in Kohaku’s eyes is already fading into relief.  
   
“You were just,” he says, and swallows visibly, looking somewhat lost and confused. “You were so still.”  
   
Tsukumo blinks at him. “Yeah, I mean. I was asleep.” He doesn’t remember passing out – it must have hit him suddenly, as soon as he’d gotten back from the cemetery, his trainwreck of a body apparently wanting more than the nine solid hours he’d already given it.  
   
“Right, yeah,” Kohaku laughs, with that same nervous edge as before. He palms the back of his neck awkwardly as he glances away. When he speaks next it’s obvious that he’s drawing attention away from himself. “You – who’d you have to visit, anyway? A woman?”  
   
It’s Tsukumo’s turn to laugh – a sharp, disbelieving noise. “Are you making fun of me, Kohaku-san? What kind of woman would’ve stuck with me while I was unconscious in the hospital for months?”  
   
Kohaku looks back at him with a frown. “If she loved you, she would’ve.”  
   
 _His thoughts are still amorphous, still hard to grasp, like trying to hold water in the palm of your hand. Distantly, he can hear the nurse ‘hmm’ as she adjusts the curtains, dust motes swirling in the growing patch of sunlight. “Oh, but you know,” she says, “that handsome man with the different coloured eyes? Very striking, if you ask me. He was here to see you almost every day. For an hour or more, sometimes. Just sitting there like a statue – ”_  
   
“You ever been in love, Tsukumo?” Kohaku is asking.  
   
He’s at the window now, leaning against the wall and peering down into the street below, and Tsukumo stares at his back for a time, an odd, tense feeling coiled tight in his chest.  
   
“Once or twice,” he answers.  
   
“Yeah? What was it like?”  
   
That, too, gives him pause. “It was fucking awful,” is what he says finally, which gets a surprised laugh out of Kohaku. When he turns back to look at him he’s grinning.  
   
“So it was one-sided, right?”  
   
“No need to rub it in.”  
   
“Sorry, sorry. Just. Been thinking a bit.” An unreadable emotion flickers across his face. “Being in love… Not to sound sappy or anything, but. It was the best feeling in the world, for me. So maybe I’m lucky, actually. Since I had that.” A quirk of the lips. “For some people it’s ‘fucking awful,’ after all.”  
   
Tsukumo wonders why his eyes feel hot. “Yeah,” he says, a bit hoarsely. “You’ve always been a lucky bastard.”


End file.
